Page 33 of Slapshot Baby

He doesn't know you. That night didn't happen for him. You’re a woman who showed up with a plant.

"So I have you to myself."

The words leave my mouth before my brain approves them. His eyebrows lift.

"I mean, I can actually talk to you without an audience." I shove a container toward him. "Eat."

He opens it, inspects the contents, and picks up the fork. His grip is steady.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Can I ask you something?"

He shrugs. “Go ahead.”

"So, the charity gala where we met. Is any of it coming back?” I keep it casual, the way you check a wound you don't want to reopen. “The lounge, the terrible champagne, me being the most memorable person in the room?"

"That's a leading question."

"It's an accurate question. What's the last event you remember before the accident?"

He chews slowly. "Some team thing in twenty twenty-two. The details are blurry."

"So you don't remember the lounge renovation at all? The leather couches they had before were criminal, like a dentist's waiting room crossed with a frat house."

"No."

"Your teammate Wyatt crashed our conversation that night. He asked me about the power play and you told him to leave."

His mouth twitches. "That sounds right. I wish I could remember it."

“Then what can you recall?”

He goes quiet for a while. His eyes come back to me, an apology in them.

"I remember everything since I woke up. The problem is what’s before."

My shoulders sag. Of course not.

I look at his hands on the container. Those hands held my face six weeks ago, pinned my hips to his mattress, laced through my fingers while he moved inside me.

He has no idea.

My chest tightens. My lips begin to form a small smile.

Do not. You did this once. You're eight weeks into what happens when you do this.

My hand drifts toward my stomach. I catch it, smooth my shirt.

Kai doesn't notice. Why would he? He knows nothing about the baby.

I could tell him about the baby right now. The words sit right there: There's a baby. It's yours. It happened the night you can't reach.

But I look at the IV line taped to the back of his hand. The way the black shirt hangs loose where muscle used to fill it. The slight tremor in his fingers when he reaches for the water cup.

This man is still learning how to eat solid food without exhaustion. He's missing four years of his life.

I can't hand him a pregnancy on top of that. Not yet. Not until he's strong enough to process it without it breaking something that's still mending.

Until then, I'll keep visiting him as a friend. Make sure he's okay. Wait until he's strong enough to hear the truth.